


As You Wish

by Elvendork



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Subtle Love Confessions, The Princess Bride References, crack adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 21:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: Five times Aziraphale didn't understand Crowley's references, and one time he did.





	1. As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, it just happened. Like it's not quite crack fic but it's well on the way.  
By the way, I love that "The Princess Bride References" is an existing tag.

The first time is not intentional. Crowley doesn’t even realise he has done it until it is too late to take the words back.

Aziraphale is in an organising mood, rearranging various shelves into some obscure new system probably designed solely to confuse customers. The shop is open, but it would only appear so from the outside on very close inspection.

Crowley is lounging in a chair behind the counter, feet up beside the little bell, tapping away at something on his phone.

Aziraphale speaks without turning around. ‘Pass me that book, would you?’ He holds out his hand expectantly. Crowley raises his eyebrows, both at the presumptive tone and the fact that he is literally surrounded by books; Aziraphale could be referring to any one of them.

Nevertheless, it does not occur to him to refuse. He glances up, sees Aziraphale snapping his fingers impatiently and pointing at a particularly large volume just to the left of Crowley’s shoes, and rolls his eyes as he picks it up.

‘As you wish.’ The final word is hardly out of his mouth before Crowley is regretting it, eyes blowing wide and cheeks flaming like the sun. _Oh shit._ _Why did he say that_? He barely manages to hand the offending item over without dropping it.

‘Thank you,’ Aziraphale replies absently, appearing not to notice. He tucks the book into its new place. Crowley stares at him for several seconds before he relaxes slightly. Thank Someone for Aziraphale’s ignorance of pop culture.


	2. No One of Consequence

The second time is several weeks later, and deliberate. Every time Crowley thinks of the previous incident his face flares crimson. He tries not to think about it around Aziraphale.

This time he is prepared. He has to know if Aziraphale might have understood the unintentional reference, although truthfully Crowley hasn’t the faintest idea what he will do if it turns out he did.

He strides into the (closed) shop without hesitation, but does not announce his presence. He has a number of plans stored up; now it is all about creating the perfect set up. It must seem natural, of course.

‘Hello?’ a muffled voice calls from the back. ‘I’m afraid we’re closed; you’ll have to come back later.’

He does not seem to be moving any closer. Good. This might work. Crowley does not reply, simply stands with his hands in his pockets scanning the titles on the nearest shelf with mild interest.

‘Hello?’ Aziraphale repeats. From the sound of his voice he is now making his way towards the main shop. ‘Who is it?’

Crowley waits a moment, determined to time this exactly.

‘No one of consequence,’ he replies just as Aziraphale bustles into view. His tone is lazy, casual; his eyes and ears are sharp for a response from the angel.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Crowley tries not to read too much into how pleased Aziraphale appears, how his shoulders relax on sight. He looks instead for any flicker of recognition for the quote. There is none.


	3. It Would Take a Miracle

The third time hardly counts. They are in Tadfield, checking in with Adam, and the Them are expounding enthusiastically on a rather convoluted (though impressively detailed) _plan_.

Apparently, Newton Pulsifer has recently bemoaned the impossibility of surprising Anathema, who really is more psychic than is good for her or for anyone hoping to throw a birthday party she does not sniff out days in advance.

Adam Young and his friends have taken this as a personal challenge.

Crowley, Aziraphale, Newt, and the Them are in the somewhat cramped living room of Jasmine Cottage, taking advantage of Anathema’s temporary absence to have a brainstorming session; Newt is becoming desperate. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are entirely sure how they became roped into this, but neither have yet raised vocal complaints.

Adam is perched on the coffee table; the other Them are sprawled on the floor taking it in turns to roll a tennis ball for Dog. Crowley is taking up far more space on the sofa than strictly necessary, with Aziraphale seated primly beside him, sipping tea. Newt is in the opposite armchair nibbling a biscuit and listening with bewildered curiosity to Adam’s latest idea.

‘Do you think it will work?’ Aziraphale asks Crowley doubtfully.

‘It would take a miracle,’ Crowley replies. Aziraphale, looking innocently excited, starts to raise a hand.

‘No… No, angel.’ Crowley reaches out to lower Aziraphale’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean literally.’

He really has _no idea_. Crowley is not sure if this is a relief or a torment.


	4. They're Terribly Comfortable

The fourth time is really just a deflection tactic, and even Aziraphale knows it.

The are alone and, unusually, in Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale had announced that he was rather keen to try out a new custard tart recipe (without miracles), and doesn’t Crowley have an impressive and unused kitchen hidden away?

Crowley had expressed token objections of course, but there was never any real chance of him saying no to Aziraphale.

He hadn’t quite counted on being expected to _help_, but again… there is a certain _look_ Aziraphale gets which he must know Crowley cannot refuse, which is why Crowley is now standing at the kitchen counter peering irritably at his copy of the instructions.

He does not notice at first that his sunglasses have slipped down enough to reveal the tops of his eyes; not until he catches Aziraphale watching him thoughtfully. He pushes them back up and straightens his back, swiping the paper from the granite surface and holding it up to continue reading.

‘You needn’t wear them here, you know,’ Aziraphale says conversationally.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The glasses,’ Aziraphale clarifies, searching Crowley’s cupboards for a mixing bowl. ‘You needn’t wear them here.’

‘I’m not wearing them because I _need_ them,’ Crowley replies without thinking. He resists the urge to adjust them again.

‘Well then why _do_ you wear them? It’s only us here, after all.’

Crowley shifts uncomfortably and hopes Aziraphale doesn’t notice.

‘Fashion, angel,’ he lies. ‘At some point everyone will catch on. They’re terribly comfortable.’

Nothing.


	5. Like Civilized People

The fifth time is entirely Aziraphale’s fault and Crowley will accept no responsibility for it whatsoever. He is not quite sober but not yet actually drunk, and Aziraphale is looking at him seriously over the top of his glass.

‘We need to talk,’ says Aziraphale eventually. Crowley’s stomach drops. He takes a large gulp of whatever drink he is currently on – he has lost track – to cover his sudden discomfort.

‘Even you must know that nothing good has ever come of that sentence, angel.’

‘I’m serious,’ Aziraphale insists. His sincerity is in no way diminished by the way his words are slightly slurred, which is infuriating.

‘You mean you’ll put down your drink and I’ll take off my glasses and we’ll discuss our feelings like civilised people?’ Crowley responds waspishly. ‘No thanks.’

‘You’ve been behaving oddly for months,’ Aziraphale complains. He actually does put his drink down, which Crowley cannot help but think is a bad sign. He does not quite let go of it though; he twists the glass in place with the tips of his fingers, glaring at it for almost a full minute of silence before he speaks again. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

This is _not allowed_. Crowley feels flayed open at the look Aziraphale gives him and cannot bring himself to respond harshly. He looks so _hurt_, which Crowley cannot stand to see – let alone be the cause of.

‘No,’ he replies. ‘It’s nothing. Everything’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ says Crowley softly. ‘I’m sure.’


	6. This One Left Them All Behind

Crowley has had enough. It is a wonder is has taken him this long, really, but sometime in the last six months Aziraphale’s ignorance has ceased to be a relief and become a distinct annoyance. Aziraphale is going to get educated, and then Crowley is going to hide in his flat tormenting his plants and sleeping for at least a decade before they face each other again. Hopefully that will be long enough for the whole thing to have blown over.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. One phrase – three words – half a year ago, which Aziraphale had clearly not registered as being out of the ordinary and which Crowley had not uttered with any ulterior motive, which Aziraphale probably does not remember at all and which Crowley shouldn’t be obsessing over with such focus – it is ridiculous.

It is also becoming increasingly unavoidable. When he had first said it, he really _hadn’t_ meant anything by it, which is perhaps the most infuriating part of the whole affair. He has no reason to feel embarrassed by it, especially as Aziraphale has not at any point indicated that he might even understand it as a reference, let alone any sort of real confession.

And yet.

One check is understandable, perhaps. One quick reassurance that Aziraphale cannot have read anything untoward in the words. It eventually dawns on Crowley, reluctantly, that the fact that he _kept trying_, that he _kept_ pushing the subject, however obliquely, probably indicates… well… Part of him _wants_ Aziraphale to have understood.

It is not a part of him that he is particularly fond of.

Still, he finds himself pushing uninvited into the bookshop late one afternoon with a single purpose in mind.

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale exclaims, startled, when Crowley strides into the back room without so much as knocking (if he slows down he will change his mind). He twists around in his seat but does not stand up. ‘Crowley, what are you doing here?’

‘Here,’ Crowley thrusts the DVD case towards Aziraphale without meeting his eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his teeth are clenched. ‘You need to watch this.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Aziraphale replies, nonplussed. He does not take the DVD. Crowley sets it on the desk beside Aziraphale’s elbow and steps back as though it might burn him if he stands too close.

‘It’s a film. You need to watch it.’

‘I can see that it’s a film,’ Aziraphale eyes the DVD cover with distaste. ‘Why do I need to watch it?’

‘Just. Watch it. And then. You’ll see when you’ve watched it, okay?’ Crowley has still not looked Aziraphale in the eye. He turns on his heel and makes to leave quickly, but Aziraphale stands up and catches his arm before he has made it two steps.

‘Aren’t you going to stay?’

‘No.’ He does not turn around. Aziraphale has to step into his line of sight and crane his neck to get Crowley to look at him.

‘My dear, whatever is the matter?’

‘Just watch the film, Aziraphale.’

‘Why is this film suddenly so important? Does this have to do with how strangely you’ve been acting lately?’ Now Aziraphale has both hands on Crowley’s arms, still trying to catch his eye directly. Crowley thinks he might actually combust on the spot if he doesn’t get out of here soon. This was a terrible idea.

‘Sure. Let’s say that. Now can I go?’

‘No,’ Aziraphale replies firmly. ‘I shall only watch it if you watch it with me.’

Crowley releases an explosive sigh and twists out of Aziraphale’s grip, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. There is no getting out of this now. Damn, damn, _damn_, this was probably the worst idea he has had in centuries.

‘You –’

‘I mean it.’ Aziraphale crosses his arms. ‘If you want me to watch it, you have to stay.’

‘You – I – fine. Just… fine.’

Perhaps he can pretend he was drunk. What if he turned the DVD into a copy of _The Sound of Music_? Perhaps he can pretend this was a prank.

He follows Aziraphale dumbly to the sofa. He is not sure, now, if Aziraphale has ever had a television or a DVD player before. Regardless, there is one there now. The TV looks at least thirty years out of date; the DVD player still has a slot for VHS tapes to the side.

Crowley fidgets as Aziraphale putters around making tea, inspecting the case (he raises his eyebrows and looks quizzically at Crowley when he reads the back, but does not comment), taking the disc out with exaggerated care.

After what seems like an interminable age, Aziraphale takes his place beside Crowley. He lays a hand on Crowley’s jumping knee, automatically it seems, and Crowley instantly freezes.

Aziraphale looks politely confused as he presses play. He glances at Crowley several times during the opening, seemingly about to speak, but Crowley’s eyes remain fixed resolutely on the screen.

Almost three minutes in (_as you wish_), Aziraphale frowns slightly. Thirty seconds later (_what he meant was, I love you_) his mouth falls open and a tiny gasp escapes, too small to be noticed unless someone was paying close attention. Crowley is paying very close attention.

Suddenly Aziraphale is very determinedly _not looking at Crowley_.

He remains that way, rigidly expressionless, for the next twenty minutes (_no one of consequence_). Then his eyes widen and dart in Crowley’s direction. His head does not move, so whether or not Crowley notices is uncertain.

It is difficult to tell if either of them breathes much after that. Crowley becomes more and more statuesque. His normally casual sprawling posture is too still to be natural; a muscle twitches in his jaw, and his neck aches with being held in the same position for too long.

By contrast – though Crowley is too preoccupied to notice – Aziraphale slowly begins to relax. His expression softens gradually; he even smiles once or twice, and his eyes increasingly drift over to watch Crowley’s profile.

During the final scene, Crowley’s hands clench themselves unbidden into fists. He flexes his fingers, trying to get them to relax, but cannot quite manage it. Any second now he will have no escape from questions; from either confusion or rejection; whatever Aziraphale’s response it is bound to be awkward. Any moment now he will not be able to pretend to be paying attention to the film.

(_This one left them all behind_.)

Aziraphale definitely looks at him then. And remains looking at him for the last minute before the credits roll.

‘Well,’ he says at last. His voice sounds as though he has forgotten how to use it. Crowley takes a deep breath, preparing for the worst, and finally turns to face Aziraphale. What he sees is definitely not what he expects.

Aziraphale has an expression on his face Crowley has never seen before. It is a fierce, determined expression; eyes blazing, mouth set, gaze clear and focused. There is a sort of terrified joy in it.

‘I think we can do better than that,’ he says, and though his voice is shaking there is no doubt in it.

Crowley has no time to reply or to question what Aziraphale means before the angel has his hand on Crowley’s cheek. Crowley dare not move.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale prompts, looking petrified and mischievous all at once.

‘Mm?’ Crowley cannot manage words right now. He feels like his heart might be going to beat itself out of his chest. He is surprised Aziraphale’s hand isn’t burning where it rests against his face. This is not even in the realm of anything he had dared imagine.

‘This is the part where you kiss me,’ Aziraphale explains, fighting a smile.

Crowley is helpless.

‘As you wish,’ he says weakly, and leans forwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody take my laptop away from me I should not be allowed to write things.


End file.
